If I Told You So

by Timothy Woodward

  When the sun starts to set, people toss anchors overboard and turn on their running lights, staking out the spots with the best view of the ring of villages along the shoreline. Soon the glittering jewels of fireworks will erupt all around the lake, proceeding in order as if rotating around a clock face. A well-placed boat will be able to see five or six different displays over the course of an hour and a half. A few of the more adventurous will even set off their own fireworks from the back of their boats.

  The air is filled with the aroma of charcoal and grilled meat from hibachi grills set up by the families with pontoon party boats or the larger cabin cruisers. Later, the smell will be replaced by sulfur and the bitter smoke from handheld sparklers and Roman candles.

  From Jay’s boat, I can see all of this. He stops the boat a little ways away from the main group of boats so we can have some privacy. We might not have the best view on the lake, but it’s still way better than the people back on shore. My mom and dad are out with Becky and her parents, camped along one of the beaches along the shore. I feel a little bad for Becky, trapped with the adults for the evening, but I wouldn’t trade places for anything.

  I’m standing in the bow seats of Jay’s boat and he’s just thrown the anchor overboard, a long yellow rope snaking down into the water after the metal weight. He comes up behind me and places his arms around my shoulders. I feel his lips tickle my ear and then he kisses my neck. Once, twice, three times before I give in and turn to face him. Then we are kissing, his tongue sliding between my lips, his hand at the back of my neck. We stand in this embrace for a long minute before we both need air.

  “I’ve never been out on the lake for the Fourth before,” I say when we break apart. “My mom’s not a fan of boats, so we always watch from shore.”

  “You’re going to love it from here then.”

  “I’m already loving it, and it’s not even dark yet.”

  “Just wait.” Jay turns away and opens a compartment beneath one of the bow seats. It’s a cooler and he’s stashed several sodas in ice. He tosses one to me. He opens another compartment and pulls out a small picnic basket. “Here, I brought us dinner.”

  Jay leads me to the back of the boat where he opens a fold-down table and begins setting up a spread of cheese, meats, crackers, and olives. He pulls out a small candlestick in a holder, and lights it with his lighter. There’s also a plate of sliced veggies and hummus. It looks like something out of a fancy catering magazine.

  “Did you make this?” No one besides my mom has ever made me dinner before, and even though this is simple, it’s also very romantic.

  “I wouldn’t exactly say I made anything,” Jay says with a grin. “But I hope you like it.”

  “I love it.” And I find myself kissing Jay again, the food nearly forgotten for the moment.

  Eventually, we do eat the food while we wait for the sun to finish its descent. As darkness falls, the boats surrounding us turn on their red and green running lights. Soon, the lake is alive with twinkling lights. It’s so different from the last time on Jay’s boat when we were the only boat for what seemed like miles.

  And then it starts. Off to the left, the fireworks begin. There’s a whistle and then a bang that rolls across the water, and a bloom of white appears in the sky. Similar explosions of red and blue and green follow it. The display goes on for several minutes, and I watch in fascination as each rocket is also reflected in the water, creating mirrored displays.

  Jay slips my hand in his and squeezes. “Do you like?” he says into my ear.

  In response, I turn and kiss him on the cheek. “It’s beautiful,” I say.

  Almost as soon as the first display has finished in a grand finale of multicolored pinwheels and sparkling chandeliers, the next one starts. And then the next. It’s a never-ending pyrotechnic display. By the time the third and fourth towns have started their fireworks, Jay and I have moved to the front of the boat, but we’re no longer watching the show. Instead, we are making our own fireworks, my lips on his, his hand on my back, my hand in his hair. I don’t think this is what they mean in the movies when they say you see fireworks when you kiss the right person, but it sure feels like a scene from a movie.

  On this night, everything is perfect: the lake, the boat, Jay. I never want to leave this moment. And even though the fireworks do end, the vibrations don’t stop inside of me. They’re exploding long after the smoke has floated away on the night breeze and Jay has guided his boat back toward the Bell Cove marina. It’s a feeling I’ve never felt with anyone before, and I wonder, Could this be what it feels like to be falling in love?

  Chapter 21

  After a month of working at the Pink Cone, the job starts to settle into a routine. I work three nights during the week and Saturday afternoon and evening. Becky works the same schedule as me, so even a slow shift is fun. The best part is that Jay works all of my shifts, too. I’m not sure if he arranged it that way, but I’m not complaining.

  It does mean we can spend lots of time together before and after work. Most of that is spent on his boat. Jay puts up the collapsible sunshade for privacy, and we make out on the rear banquette. Sometimes we’ll get a pizza and Becky will join us, though we don’t plan any more trips out to Camp Aweelah.

  Of course, not every day at the Pink Cone is cherry vanilla.

  “Thank goodness you’re here,” Ashley says to me as I walk in for my shift on a Saturday afternoon at the end of July.

  “That bad?”

  “Harleigh called in sick so it’s just been Jay and me for the past four hours. Harleigh’s new boyfriend just got a motorcycle. ”

  “Is it a Harley?” I smile.

  Ashley practically throws her ice cream scoop at me. “Jay said when you got here I could take a break.” Amanda marches past me and out the back door. I watch her go, wondering what could have usually quiet Amanda so worked up. I’m about to find out.

  First of all, Becky’s late, which wouldn’t be a big deal except that I’ve barely pulled my bright pink T-shirt over my head when a parade of six-year-olds bounds up the porch steps to the window. There’s about ten of them, all shouting their desired flavors at the top of their lungs. I’m thankful for the clapboard wall saving me from a stampede and it’s sure-to-be-bloody aftermath.

  “Chocolate chip!”

  “Cookie dough!”

  “Do they have Mooth Trackth?” shouts one little girl who is missing her front teeth.

  “Jay!” I shout over my shoulder, calling for reinforcements.

  A blond woman in her early thirties splits the sea of children and approaches the window. She lets out a deep sigh before telling me, “Ten kiddie cones.” She turns back to the kids. “Tell the nice man what flavor you want,” she says, prying a boy with red cheeks off her leg.

  I am bombarded by ten shrieking voices simultaneously.

  “Chocobanacookiepepperminillabutter!”

  “One at a time,” I say.

  “Quiet!” The woman’s sudden volume makes me jump, and I hit my head on the top of the window. I briefly see stars. “Line up! Jimmy is the birthday boy; let him go first.” The mother directs the children as they push their way into a single-file line.

  I look over my shoulder. Where’s Jay? Where’s Becky? I grab a pencil and a pad of paper that we keep by the window to keep track of big orders.

  “Chocolate chip,” the red-cheeked boy says and then buries his face in his mother’s jeans.

  “Laci, what would you like?” the mother says to the girl next in line.

  It’s the girl with no teeth. “Mooth Trackth.”

  “We don’t have Moose Tracks,” I say. “How about something else?”

  The girl stares at me. After a moment the mother bends down. “They don’t have it. What would you like instead?”

  “Mooth Trackth!” the girl yells, as if being louder will change my mind. I look at the mother and try to give her a smile, but already I can see tears forming in the girl’s eyes.

>   The mother kneels in front of Laci. “Shh,” she says quietly and then turns to look up at me with an apologetic smile. She turns back to the child.

  I take the opportunity to figure out what happened to Jay. Surely he can hear all of this racket and realize I’m in over my head.

  “Jay?” I call toward the freezer. No answer. I suddenly realize that I’m the only one in the store. I feel my face grow warm and my heart rate increase just a touch as I turn back to the small army of children in front of me. I am outnumbered and outgunned. I take a breath.

  “We have peanut butter cup,” I offer. “It’s like Moose Tracks. ”

  “It’s not the same!” The girl bursts into tears. I’m left holding the pad and pencil, helpless.

  “Maybe I can get everyone else’s order?” I ask the mom, but she is too focused on the crying girl to hear me. So I turn away and start to scoop chocolate chip. Leaning over the freezer, I imagine myself crawling inside and away from the crying children behind me. I lean a little farther over; the frozen air feels good on my face.

  I feel a shooting cold at the base of my spine, and my body involuntarily reacts. I raise my head too quickly and hit it on the freezer lid.

  “Ow! What the—”

  “Hey, Sean.” Jay is standing behind me with a five-gallon container of rum raisin in his arms. He smiles at me and lets his hand brush along my back as he bends forward to put the ice cream away. I don’t have to ask him where he’s been; this close, I can smell the cigarette he was smoking out back.

  “I really need your help. Becky’s late, and the girl wants Moose Tracks, and—”

  Jay holds up a hand to quiet me. “Watch and learn, young grasshopper,” he says in an exaggerated Japanese accent. He turns around to the window where the little girl’s wails have slowed to staggered sobs. “Hey, there,” Jay says. “It’s your lucky day. I found a container of Moose Tracks in the back. It’s the last one.” The girl’s face immediately relaxes into a smile, and the mother looks up gratefully.

  “But, Jay,” I whisper behind him, “we don’t—”

  He turns around and says so the girl can’t hear, “Just give her a scoop of peanut butter cup. One thing you should learn now, six-year-olds can’t tell the difference.”

  And he’s right. I scoop the peanut butter cup into a cone and hand it to the girl. Jay helps me finish the rest of the order, and the army of six-year-olds retreats to a pair of picnic tables on the side lawn, devouring their ice cream with sticky-fingered gusto.

  When the children have all left the porch, I turn on Jay.

  “Where were you?”

  “I was out back. I thought you’d have everything under control.”

  “Well, I didn’t.” I turn away from him.

  “Hey, babe, I’m sorry.” Jay puts his hands on my shoulders from behind and squeezes. I shrug him off.

  “You should be. You’re the manager.”

  I can hear Jay’s mouth open to say something, but just at that moment a voice interrupts us.

  “Not so close, you two! This is a place of business.”

  I wheel around. “Becky! Where have you been?”

  “Sorry I’m late. Did I miss anything?”

  “Only Sean getting beat up by a six-year-old.”

  “Beat up?” Becky says.

  “Oh, yeah.” Jay smiles. “Lots of tears. It wasn’t pretty.”

  “Shut up.” I give Jay a shove into the freezer. He’s about to retaliate, but Becky jumps between us.

  “Okay. I get the picture. I see that I can’t leave the two of you alone.” She turns to Jay. “Don’t you have some ice cream to make or something?”

  He bows deeply. “Your wish is my command, my queen.”

  “Are you talking to me or Sean?” Becky gives me a wink.

  I feel my face turning red as heat rushes to my cheeks. I think about jumping in the freezer again.

  “I was talking to you, sweetheart. Sean is my prince.” Jay blows me a kiss, but I am too embarrassed to respond. He just laughs at me and leaves to finish the night’s ice cream batches.

  “He really is sweet on you,” Becky says. “I’m so glad I got you together!”

  “You got us together? As I recall—” I am cut off as an older couple walks through the front door. The man holds the door for the woman and gestures grandly with his free arm in a sweeping motion to usher her in. They’re in their eighties, and it’s cute to see two people still in love after so many years. “What can I get for you?” I ask.

  “What’s wrong with you kids? None of you has any patience. Give us a minute to look at the menu,” the man says. The smile he had been giving his wife has turned into a frown for me. I’m too surprised at his rudeness to respond, but Becky saves me.

  “Take your time,” she says.

  “Of course I’ll take my time. I don’t like to be rushed.”

  Becky only smiles and adds, “Just let us know when you’re ready.” She turns away from the window.

  “How do you do that?” I say.

  “What?”

  “Smile.”

  “If you had grandparents like mine, you’d understand,” she says. “When you spend every Saturday with an eighty-year-old Jewish couple, complaints just go through one ear and out the other.”

  The man calls through the window. “Can we get some service over here!”

  “Yes, sir,” Becky says. “What can I get for you?”

  “Why don’t you have jimmies on your menu?”

  “We do, but we call them chocolate sprinkles,” Becky explains.

  “Why don’t you call them jimmies?”

  “Some people think it’s a racist term,” Becky says.

  “That’s ridiculous! It’s the damn liberals at it again!” The man’s eyes grow wide, and he starts to spit as he talks. “How can something you put on ice cream be racist? When I was a boy we could call people whatever we wanted, and no one took offense. You wanted to call a woman a broad or a doxy, you did! If a guy was a queer, you called him a queer, and no one made you feel bad about it.”

  I completely freeze up. I have no good reason, but I can’t move. Living in a small town, you get used to hearing bigoted language, but it’s not usually quite so in-your-face. Luckily, Becky has no such fear.

  “Well, sir,” she says, her words polite but her voice hard-edged like a knife, “you’re not a boy, and times have changed, and people are more respectful and open-minded.”

  “Times have changed. You young people don’t respect your elders anymore.”

  “I respect you,” Becky says softly. “I just don’t respect your opinions.” She turns away from the window and grabs a paper bowl. She scoops vanilla ice cream, slamming the scoops into the cup. Finally, she grabs the chocolate sprinkles. When the vanilla is completely covered in brown flecks, she returns to the window.

  “On the house,” she says.

  The old man grunts, grabs two spoons from the container by the window, and guides his wife out the door. Just before the door shuts behind them, Becky shouts, “You’re welcome!”

  She turns around and lets out a throaty scream without opening her mouth. “People like that make me so angry!”

  I just look at Becky for a moment. Then I throw my arms around her in a bear hug.

  “You’re choking me.”

  “You’re my hero. I can’t believe you did that.”

  “I’m not a hero.”

  “You are to me. You stood up for something when I couldn’t.” I continue to hug Becky until I realize we are being watched. A guy about my age is standing at the window. I realize he’s not alone. Another boy of about eight is next to him, his wispy blond hair just sticking up above the counter. He raises himself up on his tiptoes, and I can see his freckled nose.

  “Uh, hi. Can I help you?” I say, releasing Becky. She stifles a giggle.

  “Yeah, can I get a kiddie-size strawberry in a . . . Sean? I didn’t know you worked here.”

  It takes me a seco
nd to recognize Matt Maguire, a classmate at school. He used to have long shaggy hair, but now it’s cut short and styled in messy spikes. I knew that eventually someone would recognize me working here, but this still catches me off guard.

  “Matt. You got your hair cut.”

  He smiles and looks at his feet. “Yeah. My mom was on me about it for months.” He runs a hand through the hair above his ear. “Nice shirt.”

  I roll my eyes. “This was the only job left by the time I got around to getting one.”

  “That sucks, man.”

  “It’s not that bad. It’s fun sometimes. Becky’s fun.”

  Becky, who had been helping another customer at the other window, perks up when she hears her name.

  “Nice of you to introduce me to your hot friend.” She shoves me to the side, and before I can say anything, she sticks her hand through the window opening. “I’m Becky, and you are?”

  “Matt. And this is my cousin Andrew. I’m babysitting.”

  “That’s sweet. Seeing as Sean’s been totally ignoring you, what can I get you?” she says.

  I tap Becky on the shoulder and hand her the strawberry cone. “Who said I was ignoring anybody?”

  “I stand corrected. Here you go.” She hands the cone to Andrew, who takes it happily. She turns back to Matt. “And what about you, cutie? Did Sean bother to ask what you’d like?”

  Matt blushes and shakes his head. “I’m good,” he says.

  “Oh, come on, it’ll be on the house,” Becky says, “for Sean’s friend. ”

  “Maybe a small scoop of”—he looks over the menu—“Purple Cow?”

  “Coming right up!”

  Becky scoops out the ice cream and collects the money for the strawberry cone. Matt thanks her and leaves the porch with his cousin. He smiles at us and raises his cone in thank you before heading out the door.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had such cute friends?” Becky bites a fingertip in a gesture of repressed lust.